Kisses from Hell

Five

Despair has its own calms.

The rest of the day is spent in my room, mostly working on my painting and trying not to think about Bram, which only leads to more thinking about Bram. I mean, yes, he’s really cute. Yes, we share the same interests. Yes, he knows how to use multisyllabic words correctly in a sentence. Yes, he said he wanted to sketch me, which in my mind is pretty much the most romantic thing a person can ever say or do. But still, as cool as he may be, as familiar as he may feel, I’m also well aware, painfully aware, that I’m exhibiting all the telltale signs of a classic rebound situation.

Not that I’ve ever had an opportunity to have a classic rebound situation until now, with Jake being my first boyfriend and all. But after watching my dad go through it not long after losing my mom, when he just turned his back on the past and jumped right back into the dating pool with Nina, I’m pretty much an expert on these things.

Which is exactly why I can’t indulge myself now.

Exactly why I need to look upon Bram as a fellow art student and nothing more.

And that’s why I stay in my room. Determined to do what I came here to do, which is paint—not flirt, or hook up, or get emotionally attached to someone who’ll probably just end up breaking my heart at the soonest opportunity anyway. And when Violet comes in to leave a new tray of food, including a plate of those sausages I like, I don’t even ask if she’s seen him, or what he’s up to. I just carry on with my painting, as though Bram doesn’t exist, until the jet lag kicks in, I fall asleep again, and the dream picks up right where it left off, with me fighting through the mist, grasping for his hand, only this time, his icy cold fingers entwine with mine, pulling me closer, begging me to see him, really see him, as a pulsating red glow emanates from his chest….

And when I awaken, I head straight for my canvas and capture that, too, the long, cool fingers, the red glow, and am just making out the arch of his brow when a pale, blond girl comes in to clear the tray, takes one look at me, and suggests I change for di

I squint, wondering where she might’ve come from, since this is the first I’ve seen of her. I wasn’t even aware there was another shift of servants working here. Then I follow her gaze to my dress, horrified to see that I’ve ruined it, smeared it with paint, and wonder why no one ever offered me a smock to wear over it. I mean seriously, no teachers, no smocks, no designated art studio—what kind of art academy is this?

I take a deep breath and look up at the girl again, my mind suddenly flooding with a long list of questions. Questions that vanish the moment she returns my gaze and says, “Not to worry.” Her voice is calm, soothing, eager to put me at ease. “I’m certain the dress can be cleaned, and if not, there’s plenty more where that came from.” She turns toward the canvas, her eyes growing wide as she takes in my progress. “I say, you’ve come a very long way in just a day’s time.” She clucks her tongue as her hands twist at her apron. “Such great progress indeed,” she adds, her voice lifting. “Oh, and in case ye were wonderin’, the instructors have also been delayed. But the good news is, this mist should lift in no more than a day or two now, and when it does, all will git back to normal again.”

“Really?” I look at her. “Violet said it would be at least a week.”

She looks at me, gaze thoughtful when she says, “Did she? Well, let’s just say that things are lookin’ up, miss.” She tilts her head and looks me over, and something about her gaze, her movements, the way she clutches at her apron is so familiar. Then I realize what it is—she looks and acts like a much younger version of Violet, and I wonder if they’re somehow related. “I’m Camellia.” She nods, heading for the armoire. “Violet’s me mum.” She pushes through the row of dresses, choosing two and then turning toward me. “So, what do ye say, miss—the green or the purple?” She lifts a pale blond brow that’s so light in color it practically fades into her skin. “They’re both beautiful—both perfect for yer colorin’—couldn’t go wrong if ye tried.” She nods, dangling a gorgeous silk gown in each hand.

I glance between them, finding them both equally stu

Deciding to enjoy this new version of me for as long as it lasts, I say, “What the heck, let’s go with the purple this time.”

When I walk into the dining room, I almost don’t recognize him.

No, scratch that. Because the truth is, I do recognize him—just not as Bram.

For a split second, when I find him at the table with his hair slicked back, and his modern-day clothes replaced with 1800s Victorian wear, he looks just like the guy in my dreams—the one who beckons to me.

I freeze. My breath freezes, my heart freezes, my entire body freezes, but then, when he turns and smiles in that familiar, easygoing way that he has, all systems are go again.

He’s not the guy from my dream. He can’t be. For one thing, he’s here right in front of me. And for another, that just doesn’t make any sense.

“Let me guess, they hid your clothes too?” I take the place across from him, the one set with fine china, crystal goblets, and more rows of silverware than I know what to do with. My eyes graze over him, taking in the white ruffled shirt, the blue waistcoat, and of course those glasses, which in an odd, unexpected way really seem to go with his clothing.

“No.” He smiles, helping himself to so many sausage links I hope he’ll leave some for me. “I found these in the armoire and thought I’d dress up to match you—you know, so you wouldn’t feel so alone. What do you think?”

I look at him, allowing myself a quick glance, which is all it takes to make my stomach start to dance. Then I help myself to what’s left of the sausage, grab my knife and fork, and dig in. “You look—nice,” I mumble, between bites. “Proper, elegant”—and sexy, and hot, and totally and completely irresistible—“and, with the glasses, a little bit edgy, even,” I stammer.

He laughs, dabbing his lips with the corner of his napkin as he says, “And you, fair lady, look stu

I press my lips together and gaze down at my plate, reminding myself of my vow to not get overly excited by his compliments.

“So, I see you’re a fan of the sausage?” He looks at me, jaw dropping in horror when he realizes what he just said. “O-kay, not quite how I meant it, but, still, there it is.” He shakes his head and laughs, heaping a generous lump of mashed potatoes and some unidentifiable boiled, limp, green thing onto his plate. “Can’t say I blame you, though, it’s good stuff. Wonder what they put in it?”

I shrug, covering my mouth as I say, “It’s like hot dogs. Best not to ask.”

“Ever try blood sausage?” He looks at me, head tilted as a smile plays at his lips.

I blanch, making all ma

“Really and truly.” He nods. “Pig’s blood. Usually. It’s good stuff, though. Don’t knock it till you try it.”

I stab a green bean and lift it to my mouth, inspecting it as I say, “Uh, no thanks, why would I even go there?”

He shrugs. “Well, one could also ask, why wouldn’t you go there? I mean, you’re an artist, right?”

I shrug and pick at my food.